Peacekeepers: Rebellion in District 2
by BlueMushy
Summary: What if I told you the story of a rebellion in District 2? You would read it. Often when the loyalest rebel, the worst carnage ensue. The strangest thing yet, this rebellion was sponsored by Snow, an ambitious Private Secretary. It's the rebellion that gave rise to famous District 2 careers. It's the rebellion that hammered fear into hearts of the districts. T for language & blood.
1. Chapter 1

Like most senior peacekeepers awaiting a new commission, I attend the chamber in District 2, which is where most of us come from. There is recruitment in almost every single district, but there recruits are only selected for specialized skills; recruits from District 9 for their knowledge with flora and from District 10 with animal life. District 2 recruits make up the bulk of the unspecialized portion of peacekeepers. It's an onerous buden that my District has carried out since the end of the Dark Days, when President Narita devolved the task of peacekeeping to us. The deal, to anyone who is politically literate, is that District 2 gets to run the peacekeepers, suffer all the infamy and resentment, and bear the brunt of all the revolts, and the Capitol gets the goods, the goods of luxury goods and opulent living. Technically, the President appoints the senior officers, but in reality he has few options other than those presented to him. We have strict rules as to the qualifications of senior officers, which have been approved by the President already, in the interest in continuity of administration and sound government.

I have been a Deputy Head Peacekeeper in District 3, 8, 10, and 11, with a very clean record showing unimpeachable integrity and good service to the Capitol, so it's now my turn to be Head Peacekeeper. I've been sounded out about this by the Principal Secretary of Peacekeeping about two months ago, and I've been diligently attending the Chamber every day since.

The Chamber of Peacekeeping occupies almost the entire east wing of the Justice Building of District 2, cloaked in imperial glory and dominating the public square. Administratively, we're divided into the central offices (located in District 2) and the field offices (peacekeeper offices in each district, including District 2). The peacekeeper office of District 2 is a field office, not a central one. There are four divisions centrally; they are the divisions of recruitment and appraisal, equipment and technology, logistics, and judicial administration divisions –

"Kimimaro!" A fmiliar voice called out from the other side of the hall, dotted with comfy sofas, the newspapers fresh off the press, and a few television sets in the corners. The décor is antique, but it has no boastful motifs or garish colours. A pleasant, gentle pale green is the dominant theme, leaving the more intense shades for the potted plants that divide up the great room into several sitting areas. Despite being mostly green, this room was somehow quite warm in atmosphere.

This pleasantly wide man is my friend, Uemaro Ashimari. He's the uncle of Kirimaro Ashimari, our most recent victor, who won around 13 years ago. Kirimaro himself is now floating around in the Chamber of Privy Affairs. The two junior peacekeepers, in a blazing white, heaved four heavy leather-bound cases, presumably filled with paperwork, behind him, who sported a nifty red gown, the mark of his rank, Deputy Secretary. After the Dark Days, the civil service of District 2 was divided into 9 ranks. Each rank was divisible into senior and junor classes. Under the Fourth Rank, each class was also divisible into permanent and provisional steppings, for a total of 30 steppings across the entire rank structure. As you can see, we are a very rank-oriented group, which is somewhat accurately perceived by outsiders.

"Deputy Secretary Chief of Division of Judicial Administration Ashimari Uemaro of Nakahara Asomi," I enunciated every syllable of his full title and name, to give some warranted contrast with his casual pelting of my first name, "how are you this morning?"

"Deputy Secretary – nothing – Katsuragi Kimimaro of Kibi Asomi, I am fine this morning," he replied, capitulating to my stifling sense of humour, but still poking at my lack of a commission. He plopped down on the sofa next to me. I yanked my newspaper from under him at the last second, "Lots of work, as usual."

It wasn't my first time speaking to him since I came back to District 2, after a four-year spell in District 8 as Deputy Head Peacekeeper. District 8 is a decent district, but not nearly one of the best, which would probably be District 1, 3 or 4. District 1 for the bling, 3 for the zing, and 4 for the splash. However, there was one district where we dread to be deployed to – District 2; the sheer stress here is too much for any peacekeeper, and there's simply no room for error and relaxation; every instance of this is sure to be reported to the Chamber, and that would severely impact one's prospects in the long run. That's why the locally stationed peacekeepers here speak with a heavy accent, the accent of District 7. They're not subject to the scrutiny of their native district, and we're not subject to our severity; it's the ideal solution, really.

"I see," I mused, studying the two young peacekeepers in combat garb, still steadfastly holding onto the four cases of paperwork, "your work is the bane of these two lads' existence, perhaps…" I trailed off.

"Ah yes," he noticed his two squires, blonde hair tumbling out of their helmets' raised visors, and sharp blue eyes piercing the gentle colour scheme of the room, "go leave these at my office, at the usual place."

"Yus, sur," they said, arms trembling from the strain.

Before they are long gone, with a snap of his forefingers, he summoned two other peacekeepers. I don't want to say that I feel a little defensive about talking too much with him, as it's said that it could ruin a perfectly good appointment. It's a rapport that I'm trying to rebuild around here, to talk to everyone and gain their favours, in case I'll need to rely on their support once I am inaugurated. Peacekeeping resources are scarce, and they're held centrally, at the disposal of these desk officers, and a good word here and there is more than enough to make the difference between a calamatous failure, meaning not holding things together, and a spectacular success, meaning barely holding things together. And if you reveal too much embarrassing information, they might reveal it while you're out in the field, and your ruin grows ever more complete. The task is to get on Uemaro's good side while not giving too much to work with.

The summonses quickly drew over two other young men, who looked almost identical to the squires holding Uemaro's boxes. These two are from the Rural Youth Araduation Programme, if I remember rightly. It's a special concession offered to quarriers' children, if only a few of the most remarkable of them, to ease district inequalities. Normally speaking, you had a very determined career path in District 2. If you were born into one of the "big four" clans, Nakahara, Kibi, Heguri, and Tachinaba, you're expected to enter the civil service at 20 and work your way up; if you're exceptional, you might become a permanent secretary, in charge of an entire chamber, of which there are eight in District 2. If you're not born into one of these clans, you could still join, but your prospects are a little more limited, perhaps an Assistant Secretary is the realistic goal. If you're born to a quarrier family, it's your lot to toil like animals for 14 hours a day for a pittance of a salary, producing stones and building materials from them. If you're lucky, you'd make your way through the Trials and become a peacekeeper. If you were born to the Agakira line of the Nakahara clan, the sky's the limit.

But of course, without a graduate degree from the Academy, you can't become an officer. And no quarrier in ten lifetimes will be able to afford admission to the Academy. That qualification is made more elusive by the Pomerium Proclamation, which banned quarriers from settling in town, in which the Academy is situated, except with permit from the Chamber of Public Affairs. And these two quarrier youths were selected from a lottery for a unicorn-rare, once-in-many-lifetimes chance to become real officers in the peacekeeper service. This is a very new programme yet, so there's no telling how far would these two lads advance in the hierarchy, but I wouldn't keep my neck out like they do. District 2 is still District 2. In the quarries, you make who you are; in town, your parents make who you are. My mother was Deputy Secretary in the Chamber of Central Affairs, and that means I don't need to pass examinations to enter. I took an interest in peacekeeping at the Academy, and upon graduation I become a Staff Officer, of the Ninth Rank. Having worked meticulously and tirelessly, and navigated myself pass hundreds of difficult hours for the past 30 years, I stand ready at the Sixth Rank.

"Uhm… two coffees please," Uemaro ordered, after reading the short menu for what seemed like an eternity, "hazlenut cream and local sugar in one and in the other…"

He waited for me to complete my coffee.

"Same for me," I puffed, "but no sugar."

"Are you quite sure, Uemaro?" He asked.

"Mmmyes," I dragged my syllables, "sugar makes me hyperventilate. I can see why you need it, though. You haven't done your boxes," I took a gamble. It might show me as a little more attached to him, by prodding him this way.

"Ah well, there's no need to talk about that in this company," he scoffed, but I sensed his complexion soften considerably. A soon-to-be-realized head peacekeeper is a good friend to have, as much as a head of a division in the central offices.

Of course he hasn't done his boxes. In those boxes are dozens, if not hundreds of files, each with a life hanging on it. Recently, there has been a revolt in District 9, and rebels just seem to materialize on us; most of these are easy pickings, and they were arrested and tried. Once they brought to a peacekeeper court, evidence would be heard, by a justice of the peace, and they're remanded to prison to await judgment; if judgment involves a capital or incarceration sentence, judgment is "reserved" and a brief is produced, stating in great detail the relevant facts and containing countersigned copies of the evidence. These briefs are then brought by train to District 2, where desk officers in the Division of Judicial Administration then reviews them for procedural and legal compliance. If this checks out, it's passed to a different officer to reconsider the penalty: is it too harsh or too lenient? Various factors are taken into consideration at this stage, including the image of the government that needs to be portrayed at this moment. After this, it's passed to the sectional supervisor, who checks both facets in each brief. There are five sections doing largely the same task; above them sits my friend Uemaro, who checks each brief with his decades of experience in legal work one final time and edits if necessary. After my friend puts his signature on the brief, it can no longer be edited; it's then passed off to the Chief of the Chamber, who can either approve or reject. If it's approved, then the judgment is sent back to the district in question for implementation; if it's rejected, the prisoner goes free. It may seem like a lengthy process, but it is; it's why people think we shut them up for months at a time. We like to take our time before dispensing with people's lives and liberty.

The two lads came back with a sterling silver serving tray and two freshly brewed coffees on them, for the two of us. As I said, they're in the Rural Youth Advancement Programme, and they're attending the Chamber too.

I haven't really told you what this term means, "attending the Chamber". It means nosing around the physical place without actually having a job here. Since these two lads are still in the Academy (their full tuition paid for by a trust), they've volunteered to serve as waiters here at the great hall, where they have the privilege of meeting with persons of dignity, like us. This is a great thing, the Rural Youth Advancement Programme; it saves busy people like me the trip to the canteen.

"Tell me, Uemaro," I started, to find him rapidly pulling his nose out of the news pages, "how's RYAP coming lately?"

"Oh, I can't possible say in any detail." he declaimed, "It's handled through DRA [Division of Recruitment and Appraisal]. What were you looking to be informed about, precisely, if I might?" DRA traditionally handle the recruitment and training of enlisted peacekeepers; the task of appointing officers belonged to the Chamber of Civil Affairs, on the opposite side of the Justice Building. The word "civil" here meant "civil service", not "civilian", for our tasks are most definitely not civilian. In antiquated terminology, we might even be called military, but we don't do that anymore. "Military" sounds too sinister; "peacekeeping" has an aura of peace around it. Civil Affairs is one of the most desirable departments in which to make a career, since others depend on you for their careers, but entry is likewise the most competitive.

This should be innocent curiosity. He wasn't discussing the contents of his work, which I don't want to know.

"Well, merely acquainting myself with my estranged native District, having spent most of the past decade or so in Districts 8 and 10. Is it being seriously proposed?" I inquired.

He drew a long swill of air, letting it rush to his lungs through a narrowed orifice, producing a sound similar to a gust.

"I wouldn't worry about it. At the present rate of 4 per annum, we would have retired before it produced any noticeable effect, on all of us 670 officers," he explained.

I was strangely dissatisfied, having expected something more exciting than this. Danger is exciting, which is somewhat strange coming from a man almost fully fifty, but I wouldn't have specialized in peacekeeping in the Academy if I hadn't relished it. I liked challenges, and six years ago RYAP was so outrageous when it descended on us from the District Council, it was a challenge, a challenge against all of us, with legitimate upbringings and real family history.

Quarriers are lesser beings in our dictionary, for the simple reason that they're not registered on the Public Rolls, which records the birth and death of every person. You need a name on the Public Rolls to live in town and to get a job here.

There are those who choose to work their way up centrally, like my interlocutor, Kimimaro. Others, like me, dedicate themselves to seeing the work done, that peace ensues according to administrative precedent. Ours is a difficult task; impoverished districts often commandeer our services to discharge what should be the realm of their local civil services. In District 5, we collect taxes in place of actual taxmen. In District 7, we manage the public records. In District 9, we inspect public safety and manage infrastructure.

Two other officials filed into the great hall, one whom I recognize as Hosomaro, a colleague a few years ago in District 4; the other I couldn't name, but I did realize whose importance. He's a dispatch officer in the Chamber of Central Affairs.

Central Affairs is the most important of the eight chambers that make up the administrative apparatus of the District. It's a liaison office situated in the Capitol that relays requirements and policies there made to us, and it's our channel of communication with the Capitol. A dispatch officer, though relatively junior in rank, is the analogue of a desk officer here in Peacekeeping. He's responsible for preparing the drafts of letters that contain the Capitol's demands that gets sent to us and for receiving our letters addressed to the President and Cabinet. Hosomaro, I think, is also employed here, and he settles down on a sofa, which opportunely isolates my target.

Walking up to the officer, I gave a deliberate bow and introduced myself, and he quickly supplied what I was looking to hear. You could recognize the presence of someone from Central Affairs by the ornate swords they wore at all times.

"Kimimaro? Ashimari Kimimaro?" He confirmed, "Yes, the District Council has dispatched your appointment, and a colleague is working on the letters patent. It will come through within the a few days."

I wasn't one to doze off in Civics classes in middle school, so I retain full memory of what letters patent are. These are official documents for appointing a range of senior officers; if a Cabinet minister was appointed, it was directed to the whole nation ("to all who shall come"). If it was a non-Capitol officer, it was directed to the Department of State ("to our right trusty and entirely well-beloved John Doe of District 2, Secretary of State"). Why Department of State? Well, that's another name for Central Affairs. That's right: we're so needed, that we have our own ministry in the Capitol itself. The Head of Central Affairs gets the title of Secretary of State and sits on the President's Cabinet, and that's access on a whole different level. It's a jealously guarded position, one that I can't hope to have.

It's approaching 7 in the morning, when officials are supposed to start working, but today is evidently a slow day. If my memory serves, this place should be bustling with activity, intrigue, and conspiracy by this time of day.

"Oh well, nose to the grindstone!" Uemaro stood up. "Nice to talk, Kimimaro."

"One second, Uemaro," I uttered, as a parting question, "how many do you need to release on ransom this year?"

"85,000. But we're not capturing enough of them! Over 4,000 credits, they can't afford it, and under 4,000 credits, we can't recuperate."

The RYAP kids approached silently from behind me again. It's not that my senses were particularly sharp with movement, but the odour of their hemp gowns have caught on. All we officers wear expensive, silk gowns, which we could afford. Many of us make more than 50 times as much as the quarriers. The RYAP kids still couldn't afford our gowns, so they had to make imitaitons from linen, which were not dyed, revealing a natural, soothing, milky white. Those above Second Rank wore deep purple; Third, violet; Fourth, crimson; Fifth, red; Sixth, mustard; Seventh, green; Eighth, blue; Ninth, grey. No rank? White. Outside of District 2? White, not for reasons of modesty but safety. It's strange the way we colour-code ourselves, but I suppose it's just another form of regimentation of which we're famous.


	2. Chapter 2

During the following days, the _Peace Mirror_ , our professional newspaper and gazette, contained an interesting news story in development. Three days ago, it was alleged that a peacekeeper by the name Artorius Marek gave out forty-eight lashes to an idle fisherman in District 4; the story contained an interview with the whipped and his family, pleading for attention in and out of their District. Of course, since there is no national newspaper available to those outside of the civil services in each district, their plea will likely go unheeded, or so I initially thought.

The next day, it was pronounced that Artorius Marek was placed on immediate suspension pending disciplinary action. For misbehaving peacekeepers, several kinds of penalties exist: fines, suspension, and expulsion. The most basic was a reduction in salary; for officers, this was a percentage of their fat paycheques, but for enlisted men, it was a fixed amount. Oftentimes, it could be as much as a whole month's salary or even more than that. As a matter of fact, I know that this amount is fixed for the enlisted men, because a fine of their meagre salaries based on percentages is too little. Not too little to hurt, because any fine on their meagre salaries hurts a lot, but too little to hit quota on the "fine and amercement" income category on the budgetary measure presented to the District Council at the beginning of the year. This is an open secret amongst officers, but miraculously unknown for the enlisted. If it seems rather underhanded that we're fining our inferiors just to make more money, you can bet that the new bridge in District 9 wouldn't have materialized if our underlings weren't such misbehaving brats. As a recourse to a debilitating fine, an enlisted peacekeeper is allowed to take corporeal punishment as an alternative; 10 credits for each lash is the typical rate, though in particularly impoverished districts, it may be 5 or even 4.

Suspension was thus not often used as a means of penalty, since it meant we couldn't use his services during the time he was suspended. The only explanation is that he did something so heinous that we couldn't keep him onboard, at least for now. In some places, like District 11, 40 lashes is not excessive, but from personal experience I know that it is in a place like District 4, where I have been Deputy Head Peacekeeper. Just as I was mentally indicting this Artorius Marek, whose name seemed to ring a dreaded bell toll when I read it time and again, one of the RYAP kids tapped on my shoulder.

"Sur, the Chief of the Chamber would like the see you in his office," they said hesitantly.

 _Aha_ , I gathered, time for my commission. I am not sure which district I should hope for, but any district other than District 2 would satisfy me quite adequately. I nodded at the young man, who backed away to make room for me to rise from my couch. You don't see too many peacekeepers in our prototypical armour in the Chamber, for the simple reason that it's uncomfortable. We only don it when necessary. For very junior personnel, like the enlisted men, it's the only choice, but for officers like us, appointed by the Chamber of Civil Affairs, we have the recourse of the civil service uniform instead.

The young man offered to guide me to the office whose location I already known by heart, so I politely declined and wend my way to the heart of the peace of Panem. Arriving at the ornate, lavishly decorated double doors, I tapped my finger (knocking is exceedingly rude), and a familiar voice beaconed for my entry.

"Kimimaro," he said, gesturing me to a seat in front of his desk, displayed at the centre of the office, "please do take a seat. I'm afraid I don't yet have the news that you're hoping to hear, though I am confident that I will be in a position to give it to you in a few days' time."

My heart sank a little, but in a way this was more re-affirming.

"Thank you…" I said, as I rested myself on the plush furniture, noticing the two other RYAP kids standing guard at the back of the office.

"Ah, please don't mind them," he said, catching whiff of my bewilderment, which I had tried quite purposefully to conceal, "they're from RYAP, very junior as of yet. They asked me for a chance at being attendants upon my office, and they're doing fine."

A silence ensued.

"Sir," I began, after his sight wandered around the room, "I was asked to come here…"

Allowing others to complete your sentence was both a wise and polite thing. On the one hand, you don't appear imposing; on the other, you don't reveal your thoughts.

"Ah yes," he said, as though recollecting his lost thought, "Kimimaro, as you know, we're approaching recruitment season, and in view of the affairs incumbent upon us in District 9," referring to the recent revolt that fortunately happened only after I left office, having done everything possible to delay its happening, "I have drafted a measure to increase the officer staffing in that District. It has become apparent that 2 AHPs are not sufficient at supporting the Head Peacekeeper there, so I would like your opinion in making that figure 3."

 _Three_ Assistant Head Peacekeepers? That is unheard of.

"And this is only for District 9?"

"Yes indeed," he continued, dropping a few sheets of paper, reclining slightly more, "I thought you have been AHP in District 9, so you might be aware of the staffing there is experiencing a shortage."

I explained to him that District 9 does have quickly growing population, but the number of Assistant Head Peacekeepers wouldn't exactly help the problem, especially with the rebellion happening right now. But that may not be his motive. It's understood that we don't want all rebellions to end immediately; we want some to ferment and gain some momentum. Then, we can start to mobilize against them, to keep a delicate equilibrium, with an eye not to let it grow out of control or simply collapse. This way, we can cite the rebellion and ask for more subventions from the Capitol; the longer the rebellion exists, the greater the amount of funds diverted to us, whether for additional deployment or staffing, and we do in fact rely on these funds to continue operations. Peacekeepers always operate on extremely tight budgets, and we have no qualms with doing whatever it takes to whomever it takes to get enough money to keep the peace. Expansion of staffing and budgets can give the same effect. Of course, this is never quite referred thusly in official communications, which is why the precise intentions of the Chief of Peacekeeping can be a little hard to understand at times.

"Well," I hazard, "you see, as far as I understand, the real problem in District 9…"

He turned away. Oops, wrong direction.

"As I am inclined to see it, the crux of the issue is indeed a shortage in staffing, mountains of paperwork not done and communications with the local bureaucracy not properly established… even though I have always sought to complete my tasks on time, sir."

And then he turns back, with a smile on his seasoned visage.

"It's a very persuasive view to my mind… which seems to me that you have quite the talent in personnel affairs, a good skill to have, were you Head Peacekeeper," he said, pointing at me with his pen.

Before I had a chance further to toady him, he continued with the main article of business.

"Of which I would like to avail, now. As I was saying, we're in recruitment season right now, and you're the only DHP awaiting commission currently at leisure in District 2. I would like to tempt you with a very short deputation to the quarries to oversee the procedures at the annual recruitment fair."

I cannot believe it. Is this _the_ reason to send me down there? He knows that the quarries are dangerous, and the road leading to the quarries more dangerous still. Few outsiders know this, but District 2 is plagued by bandits. As the quarry and masonry district, a large population amongst the residents is employed at the quarries or near to the quarries; however, quarries don't always produce good stones, so the quarriers must pursue the veins as management discovers them. This meant they lived in tents congregating in encampments beyond Town limits, far beyond them. Most of District 2 is simply uninhabited; stunning views, certainly, but ungoverned, with no peacekeeper presence. Other than the annual recruitment fair that we set up (with permission from the management), most quarriers won't see a single peacekeeper at any time. At one time, District 2 did have peacekeepers, but to maintain operational standards elsewhere, we were forced to cut our staff and deployment here to the absolute minimum, with many positions even then not filled. As such, other than the small patch we call Town where civilization exists, the quarriers live in absolutely abysmal conditions, where there is simply no law or order. Of course, the quarriers have responded to this lack of order by establishing their own rules that imposed brutal, _ad hoc_ penalties of a very visceral, primitive nature to maintain some semblance of order. By order, I mean mob justice. And those that wouldn't accept this joined bands of roving bandits that terrorize the pathways from Town to the quarries; they make a living by hijacking convoys containing food and other essential goods to the quarries. From this desperation, most of the enlisted men originate, and I am now appointed to supervise their enlistment, over which they are known to fight like ravenous wolves.

"Do I really need to?" I asked meekly.

"Well, there is information somewhere out there linking the current revolt to some cases that you suppressed while in office, some _financial_ cases," he said flatly.

"That was just customary, usual in any district," I rejoined, noticing his hostility.

"And it is also customary that a dignitary of the rank of Under Secretary or higher be appointed to supervise the enlistment of around… indulge me yet," he paused, turning to the side table, reading some figures, "400 sparkling new, illiterate, brawny recruits."

There is a proverb describing this kind of conversation, where a hostile proposition is disguised in a friendly environment.

"When is it happening?" I inquire, based on my natural rights this time to know when I must face the gauntlet.

"Noon, today." He concluded, "And, as befitting your rank, your sedan is parked at the rear of the Chamber."

Nice. I have always liked riding in a sedan car, but not while I must travel to a savage place! I gingerly stepped out of the office and marched to the parked car.

The annual recruitment fair is one of the most spectacular events in the nation called Panem. Prodigiously attended, you couldn't miss it from a mile away. Tens of thousands attend it; last year, we had an initial entry pool of almost 10,000, for only 120 positions. This year, things are a little more relaxed, but it seems the entry pool exceeds 20,000 just by visual estimate before my eyes. I stand under a pavilion erected out of temporary materials, before a sea of people, corralled into a relatively flat clearing. Rags various repulsive shades of grey and brown barely covering their bodies, I stand unique in the entire arena, with a volumous, luminous crimson silk gown hanging from my body. Other recruitment commissioners, variously in green and blue, inferior colours, stand behind me, as I stare down at my watch for the trials to commence some time at high noon.

To be enlisted, you need to be between the ages of 18 and 28; these standards are based on physical and intellectual estimates founded in Town residents. In the quarries, a 14-year-old could easily be as powerful as an 18-year-old in Town, so we allow a little leeway on that side. On the other hand, since there is no education in the quarries, no quarrier can be expected to become intellectually equivalent to an 18-year-old in Town. The bright sun, the blue sky, and the eager people all demand the event to begin, to embark on the path of honour.

When I was young, when peacekeeper activities first started in District 2, we emphasized that service as a peacekeeper was honourable; this proved unnecessary, as even the lowliest peacekeeper could expect 4 to 5 times as much income as a quarrier. There was just one catch: they must pass the Trials to become enlisted. Part of my reluctance to host this event was due to the nature of the Trials, which I find a little disturbing, to myself at least, but for the quarriers, this might just be another average day, defending what little they call their property and the lives of their families. I finally speak, as the last to arrive walk into the clearing.

"My esteemed Deputy Secretary, Director of Recruitment and Appraisal," I start diplomatically, nodding to my co-host, who looked the other direction, "Under Secretary, Deputy Director of Recruitment and Appraisal, and Assistant Secretary, Supervisor of Enlistment," I nod in his direction too, "and the people of District 2, greetings! From time to time in the history of our great nation, our government must enlist our assistance to keep the peace in the four corners of our lands. Forasmuch as we are all peace-loving people, and affirming that, above all, war is the greatest evil known to mankind, tearing families and communities apart and setting them against one another, there must be those responsible for peace, to keep and safeguard it, by discrete exercise of force, should that be unfortunately necessary to ascertain the greater peace for our nation. None whosoever have ever said that force is preferable to reason, so those that come this way, let your conscience guide you through your tasks, for the power of the government rests upon your hands, and its use, misuse, or abuse can be decided in one instant in your minds; therefore, let not impetuous and whatever…" I terminate the speech.

I turn to my co-hosts, and ask, with my hand over the receiver of the megaphone to secret my query, "It's the same speech every year, so I was wondering if we might forego it."

"May as well," one pointed out, "seems they're not listening anyway."

I nod.

"The rules of the Trials are as follows," I explained.

It's the same rules every single year. You get a little metal tag in your hands, serial-numbered to make sure there are no duplicates or forgeries. You fight with others. If you win, you get their tags; if you lose, you have to give them your tags. If you refuse, you might get killed by your conqueror, and your tags looted. You need 32 tags to complete the first stage of the Trials. The crux is this: when you have more tags, stronger people are more likely to fight you to win in one go. Once you have 32 tags, you sprint to the pavilion to have you name put down; before you do that, anyone can still challenge you for your tags. But if you run in the direction of the pavilion, people know that you've got 32. It tests strength, strategy, and running speed all at once. Technically, you're not supposed to kill opponents, but since we never really prosecute in the quarries, these rules remain technical. The only real rule is that they're not allowed to be armed with anything but their fists and legs. If they're armed with so much as a twig, they're disqualified.

I then step aside and sound a large bell hung on a stand next to me. The melody of the bell signified the commencement of the Trials, and carnage immediately takes over. The sound of punches, kicks, and people getting winded become dominant. Screams and grunts carried over from the far end of the clearing, as we spectate from on high. For my purposes, I cover my eyes with my lawn sleeves to shield my delicate senses from this violence.

Soon enough, someone emerged. It was a frightful sight, and I nearly jumped, but my co-host, the Director of DRA, seems to be quite himself and collected. As people were trying to pull him off the pavilion, somehow, with only one hand, he managed to hoist himself up over 6 ft. and reach us. His other hand was still relentless fending the challengers away. He spat out the tags that he kept in his mouth, and laid them out in an 8 by 4 grid for confirmation with 4 in excess. Keeping his tags in his mouth was a smart move, since it prevented others from noticing his accruement of 32 tags, but once he started climbing the pavilion, the disguise fell apart. Nothing can disguise you at that point, when you're climbing the pavilion. He was jaded and exhausted. On the other hand, if you carelessly swallowed the tags, you can't ask for us to wait until they pass through your digestive track or ask for a surgeon to get them out.

Before he managed to approach us any further, a peacekeeper stopped him and asked him to put his name down on the Enlistment Rolls. A long piece of paper sat on a side table, with a pen soaked in ink that invited him. With shaky letters, he inscribed "DELIAN TIBER" on its creamy surface and summarily collapsed on stage. The attending peacekeeper chuckled and encircled his neck with a gold necklace. Of course, it wasn't real gold, but iron pyrite. Checking the serial number on the reverse of the pyrite pendant at its centre link, he carefully wrote down 130123 beside the big, shaky "Delian Tiber" on the rolls. With a satisfied grin on his face, he passed out and was carried off stage to rest. These necklaces, as I understand, were very highly regarded in the quarries; it's the proof of one's valour and loyalty, even if one didn't make it as peacekeeper.

Four hours passed, then I rang the bell again. Those without 32 tags are dismissed. After the initial pool was selected, now it came time to press on with the second stage of the Trials.


End file.
